


four, six, never eight

by dylarks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Intrusive Thoughts, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of Death, Miya Atsumu Has OCD, Miya Atsumu Needs a Hug, Oblivious Miya Atsumu, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Pining Miya Atsumu, Post-Time Skip, Protective Miya Osamu, Texting, Unreliable Narrator, a relationship that one doesn't realize they're in, god these tags make it sound so much angstier than it is, let sakusa be a person! let him laugh and show a soft side!, sakusa is a sweetheart and fully in love with atsumu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 23:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30130806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylarks/pseuds/dylarks
Summary: In four weeks and one day exactly, Miya Atsumu will be the sole cause of Sakusa Kiyoomi's death.Atsumu doesn't know this yet, not at 8:07 AM on a Tuesday heading into practice as he would any other day, but there's nothing he can do to foresee it. There's nothing he can do to change it.In which Atsumu learns that love exists not despite who he is, but because of it.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	four, six, never eight

**Author's Note:**

> oh god i planned for this to be 5k max, so thanks for getting completely out of hand! skts is just too powerful, my first published fic for this ship outdid itself on the ideas it pulled from me
> 
> i read [multiples of two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22984774) a while ago and this idea has been in my head every since. only after i had written most of this did i go back to that fic and realize their summary _also_ mentions sakusa's death, so. apologies, i didn't mean to make it that similar but we're here now aren't we
> 
> side note: a lot of the stuff i mention regarding ocd in this fic i took from my own life, so it won't encompass all of the signs and symptoms and compulsions, just the ones i'm most familiar with. this is not to be used as a basis for learning about ocd, nor is it a way for you to diagnose yourself with ocd. this is me putting all my shit on the poor character of atsumu, because sometimes i just need an outlet
> 
> in the end though, this won't focus solely on ocd, it's more an overarching thing just as it is in real life. rather, this story will definitely focus more on the obvious relationship these two are in, yet how oblivious atsumu is in noticing that (all while pining for it. but don't blame him, blame the mental illness!)
> 
> // no beta but myself, all mistakes not caught by editing are wholly my own fault

* * *

_Trust the overthinker who tells you they love you. They have, most assuredly, thought of every reason not to._

— L.K. Pilgrim

* * *

**Day 0  
** **29 Days Remaining**

In four weeks and one day exactly, Miya Atsumu will be the sole cause of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s death.

Atsumu doesn’t know this yet, not at 8:07 AM on a Tuesday heading into practice as he would any other day, but there’s nothing he can do to foresee it. There’s nothing he can do to change it.

The rest of the team are already standing around Coach Foster in the middle of the gym when he jogs through the door. He quietly comes to a stop beside Tomas at the back of the group, not wanting to interrupt, and Foster nods at him in acknowledgement.

Atsumu is late. It used to be embarrassing, before he ultimately had to confront his teammates and explain his habits to them in as much of a standoffish, _I couldn’t care less what you think_ tone as he could manage while he stood with a bundle of nerves under his throat. They’d wanted to know why Foster never seemed to care when Atsumu was frequently late to practice, but would discipline the rest of them had they ever come trailing in past time. It used to be embarrassing, and now nobody seems to bat an eye.

Because Atsumu is late again, today, for the seventh time this month, and he and everyone else knows it will happen again.

This time, the cause lies with his locker. He’d been all set to follow his teammates as they each filtered out of the locker room to begin practice, but as soon as he shut that loud metal door the first time he knew he couldn’t leave until he did it again, and then once more, and— Closing, reopening, and closing his locker eighteen times in order to feel like he could leave it alone without worrying about it remaining unlocked.

Coach doesn’t recap anything of what he’d been discussing previously, though that’s just fine with Atsumu. Someone will fill him in if he missed anything too important. They always do.

“So, that being said,” Foster continues from an unknown tangent, “I want to work on our conditioning for the first half of practice. Do a lap and your stretches to get warmed up and then you can all start with fifteen suicides.” There’s a muffled groan from a handful of the team. “You’re free to do your own thing after that, just make sure it’s condition-focused. And don’t push yourselves too hard, at ten we’ll do an hour of weight training before cooldown. Make sure you’re all in the weight room at that time.”

It’s a direction and a dismissal, and the sound of sneakers thudding on the court fills the air as they take their lap. Shouyou and Bokuto lead the pack, naturally, their boundless energy at all times which invites everyone to go just a little bit further, and Atsumu follows neatly behind. In the back of his mind his steps are being counted in sets of twelve. Or, he counts them himself, a nearly subconscious urge at this point in his life. Either way, it’s something he can picture clearly, large and obvious numbers that roll right back to 01 once they reach 12, and the cycle continues anew.

If he finishes his lap while his count is only partway to that set of twelve—five, six, the dreaded seven—he will take just the right amount of steps in order to reach it, and he will do his stretches wherever he lands. Safe, even, and balanced.

* * *

It was harder to deal with when he was younger. Atsumu always felt like he was trying to perfect the world around him, to create a space for himself to fit into while all these restrictions and urges that guided his actions reminded him just how difficult it would be. Without knowing _why_ he felt this way, without knowing _why_ his brain decided to obsess over _balance_ and _groups of three_ but _not all the time_ because _four_ and _ten_ were numbers that were _safe_ and one day he thought maybe he could find peace in even numbers but absolutely _hated_ the way his skin felt when he clicked the buttons on the remote _eight_ times and he had to do it _twelve more_ times _three sets of four_ because only then would his mom come home from work alive and Osamu had nearly kicked him when the television kept turning on and off and he just wanted to watch something _Atsumu can you calm down—_

And Osamu had been an issue at times, when they hadn’t yet reached double digits and had already decided it was funny to be annoying to each other on purpose. Most of it was fine for Atsumu; they played and fought with words and scuffles, and it was one of the few times where his mind was pleasantly free of anything relating to numbers or routines or avoiding disasters. But his brother early on found new and easier ways to annoy him, even if at the time annoyance was not what Atsumu felt.

_(—panic, mania, you’re gonna get hurt, please stop—)_

He was never particularly organized, not the way one expects when he admits, “Yeah, I’ve got OCD, what of it?” but that doesn’t mean his stuff never had its place. And Osamu, nine years old, was the first to find out that when Atsumu’s things were messed with, moved out of order, placed somewhere else, he wouldn’t be able to do much of anything until he fixed and perfected it once more.

It was never malicious. They’d been nine, and Osamu had just been trying to point out to Atsumu how ridiculous it was that he’d freak out anytime someone touched his stuff. If his brother had known, if _Atsumu_ had known, he doubts he would have been pushed that far.

He’d lost it over a hanger. Not one in the closet, not one currently being used. It was just sitting on top of his dresser, propped up against a framed picture of the two of them as infants, but it _needed_ to be there.

“See, watch,” Osamu says, “I could move this _hanger_ and ya wouldn’t like it,” and he stomps over to Atsumu’s side of the room and lays the hanger flat on the dresser. Atsumu lets out an uncomfortable whine and puts it back the way it was.

“Don’t _do_ that!”

“Wha— It’s a hanger!”

“So? It’s mine, stop touchin’ my stuff!”

Osamu does it again anyway.

“Stooop!” he draws it out and pries the white plastic out of his brother’s grip before he can even finish laying it down, and it finds its home against the picture frame once more.

He almost thinks they’re done. Osamu takes a half-step away from the dresser and averts his eyes, and Atsumu’s heart starts to slow from where it’s currently racing. But it’s commonplace to push each other’s buttons, especially when they’re bored, especially when one already has the other backed so close against the edge.

In the time it takes for Atsumu to blink, Osamu snatches the hanger completely off the dresser and runs out of the room with an innocent, naïve laugh, and Atsumu is in too much of a shock to chase after him. Instead he stares at where the hanger is _supposed_ to be and feels his throat close up in a choked sob. His nails dig into his palms where he’s clenching his fists at his sides and his vision blurs because _no, why did he have to touch it, don’t take it, no, doesn’t he know it was keeping everything together, it had its place and he ruined it, please just put it back—_

And Osamu returns quickly when Atsumu doesn’t try to follow him out of the room, finds him in that bad place and shoves the hanger at him with a bewildered look and grumbles, “Okay, stop cryin’ will ya? What’s wrong with you?”

And Atsumu, nine years old, sets the inconsequential piece of plastic back exactly where it was before and takes a deep, relieved breath, and wholeheartedly ignores the way his brother is looking at him.

He remembers, two days later he would clean his side of the room and put a sweater on that same hanger to leave in the closet. It would not hurt because it had already done its job, and everything was still kept together without it.

* * *

“After suicides d’ya wanna run some long distance outside with me?”

The gym is peppered with athletes off on their own or paired up for their preferred stretches, and Sakusa sits in front of him as they reach forward to hold onto the toes of their shoes—or, in Sakusa’s case, letting his hands hover in the air right above the toes, avoiding having to touch his palms to the soles of his sneakers.

Atsumu finds it easier to concentrate when he has a partner, a mirror opposite him, and Sakusa is one of the few teammates who doesn’t mind if they hold each stretch for thirty-six seconds instead of thirty. It’s a system they fell into on accident, but one that had comfortably become an addition to both of their routines.

However—

“Are you going to keep pace with me this time?”

—it’s pathetic, really, how little he’s certain that they can yet be called friends. Atsumu does; he says it in his head, to himself and to the people who ask, but he hasn’t yet dared to question Sakusa about it seriously. It’s easy and fun to tease Sakusa with it, to say, “Don’t worry Omi-kun, yer still my favorite,” and delight at the put-upon scowl he’s only half-sure the man is exaggerating. It’s easy to _not_ talk about things, to _not_ ask, “Hey, are we friends?” when they’re both in their twenties and on the same professional volleyball team.

Atsumu doesn’t think they’re friends, because he’s sure Sakusa only tolerates him, but he does think they’re something close to it.

He slumps forward against his outstretched legs and complains, voice muffled by knees, “But ya always start out so _slow.”_

“That’s the whole point of long distance, idiot,” Sakusa says, but the usual barbs lining his words are absent. At thirty-six seconds they each make a V and lean for a side stretch, Atsumu over his right leg and Sakusa over his left, that calm mirror. “You need to learn to pace yourself.”

It isn’t necessary for him to actually say the words for Atsumu to know that counts as a yes. He grins, wide, in a taunt against those unamused eyes, and receives a huff of breath in response.

They complete their warmup in relative quiet after that, legs and shoulders and counting to thirty-six over and over for each stretch and it’s always good to be able to count for a purpose instead of a compulsion. Sakusa asks, “Ready?” when Atsumu begins tapping his pinky against his elbow on the last overarm stretch, and they head to the doors to switch into running shoes.

“Besides,” Sakusa says as they walk out of the gym together, picking up their earlier conversation as if he’d been thinking over it, “why ask me to join if we don’t even run together?”

Something twinges in Atsumu’s chest and he covers up his momentary hesitation with a prodding, “Jeez Omi, wanna hold my hand while yer at it?” and a laugh to lighten the air.

He’s predictably ignored save for a brief eyeroll. Sakusa says, “Let’s just go.”

And so they do.

* * *

As one of the few still remaining in the locker room, he’s toweling his hair dry, the post practice shower still damp on his skin, when a large hand comes down hard on his shoulder.

“You’re coming with us, right ‘Tsum-‘Tsum?”

“Wh-huh?”

Atsumu looks back at Bokuto standing there with an expectant smile and half-moon eyes. He hasn’t been listening at all, has no idea what he’s being asked here. Bokuto doesn’t seem to take it to heart.

“A few of us are getting lunch, down at the usual place,” he says. “You wanna join?”

It sounds fun, especially since he spies Shouyou and Inunaki hanging back by the door, chatting amongst themselves and presumably waiting for Bokuto to drag him out with them. Despite that, Atsumu has to decline.

“Eh, sorry Bokkun, maybe next time,” he says, and starts pulling on a shirt.

“Oh. You already have plans?”

Right. Because Atsumu doesn’t usually turn down an offer of going out with any of the team, no matter who it is that asks, and it’s enough off character for him to be questioned over it.

“Not really,” Atsumu waves off the insinuation. “Just got some leftovers sittin’ in the fridge that I kinda wanna eat before they go bad, ya know?”

Bokuto nods brightly. “Yeah, makes sense!” he says without any hint of resentment, and picks up his gym bag from the bench to sling it over a broad shoulder. “See ya Thursday then!”

“See ya.”

He’s left behind in the quiet locker room, but Atsumu barely notices. His thoughts are elsewhere again, drifting to the place they’d been digging towards before Bokuto had kindly interrupted, and that pit of nerves is back inside his stomach, a sensation he understands and hates completely. He needs to get home. Atsumu dresses quickly, fixes his hair in the small mirror hanging in the back of his locker, and closes the door a single time once he’s satisfied with how he looks. He pulls out his phone as he leaves, thumbs flying over the keyboard and he can feel his lips twitch.

**miya atsumu**  
hey, i’ll be right there

He hadn’t lied to Bokuto, he _does_ have food in his fridge he needs to eat. That’s exactly where he’s going now, back to the complex the entire team shares so he can heat up second day chicken teriyaki and rest on his couch after a full morning of practice, hopefully with something mindlessly interesting on the TV and not whatever the fuck Sakusa wants to watch.

It’s always something way too serious or, if late into the night, he’ll insist on anything horror. Atsumu can’t deal with either of the two, for very different reasons.

It’s odd, their relationship. Lack of relationship. Atsumu firmly holds onto the fact that they are not friends. He doesn’t have the same behaviors as his obvious friends of Shouyou, Bokuto, even Suna—though, with him in particular, it has been too long since they’ve spent time together not on opposite sides of a net or without the temper of his brother between them. Sakusa is a special case. Atsumu has to treat him differently, think of him differently.

It is exhausting at times.

At other times, he can try and claim it as refreshing.

He’s in view of the apartment when his phone buzzes in his jacket pocket.

**omi-omi**  
good. i’ve already picked out what we’re watching

 **miya atsumu**  
nuh uh. my turn

 **omi-omi**  
it’s not

 **miya atsumu**  
it literally is

 **omi-omi**  
it literally is not

Atsumu snorts and pushes open the gate to the complex. It is most certainly his turn, he knows this for a fact, because three days ago—the last time they had filed away a night for this—had been another long episode of what he thinks is supposed to be a crime thriller, but really the droning voice of the narration just made him want to sleep, not put him on the edge of his seat.

The show isn’t interesting. He’d said as much, multiple times, and the reactions (of which he’s only complaining so he’ll get one) ranged from being ignored in favor of the _boring_ show to getting a pillow to the face.

**miya atsumu**  
it’s your choice ONLY if you got something good

 **omi-omi**  
are you going to let me in?

 **miya atsumu**  
i’m not even up there yet!

He shakes his head with a disbelieving huff and takes the stairs. It’s quicker.

Sakusa is at his door when Atsumu rounds the corner, leaning one shoulder on the wall beside the jamb and staring down at his phone in one hand. In the other is a plastic sack stamped with the logo of the nearby 7-Eleven.

“The door’s locked, right?”

“You think I tried to just walk in?” Yet Sakusa puts the phone away and does attempt to turn the knob to no avail as Atsumu walks up, keys in hand. “You locked it.”

“Oh, good.”

That pit in his stomach he’d carried from the end of practice finally dissipates, but he can see Sakusa eyeing him from his peripherals. He doesn’t ask what Atsumu knows he wants to ask until they’re shut away inside, shoes and mask off at the genkan.

Sakusa sets the shopping bag on the kitchen table and murmurs with a forced indifference, “How bad was it?”

“The OCD? Oh, it was great today.”

He scoffs and sounds thoroughly offended on behalf of some unknown when he asks, “Why do you phrase it that way? You sound like you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s fun to see people try’n deal with that word, they always look so uncomfortable.” Atsumu smiles and it isn’t kind. “Ya still kinda flinch.”

“You’re an ass. I don’t flinch.”

“Yeah, but I can tell ya don’t like it.”

He watches Sakusa closely. The man’s jaw clenches and he’s obvious in not looking back at him, taking out two bottles of water and pushing the plastic bag and whatever’s left inside to the edge of the table. Keeping up that forced indifference in their shared stubbornness, and it’s at least honorable. Atsumu relents just enough.

He says, “Not as bad as it could’a been.”

“You were late for practice.”

“So?” Atsumu moves past him to the fridge and takes out the unopened containers of chicken teriyaki he’d bought yesterday. “That happens a lot.”

“Seven minutes?”

“Aww, were ya countin’? Waitin’ on me, Omi-Omi?”

He receives an unamused glare for his efforts. “Wondered if maybe you decided to skip practice.”

Atsumu gasps, “I’m offended ya’d think so lowly a’me!” and nearly throws a hand to his chest. “Now I know I had an extra pair of clean chopsticks ‘round here somewhere…”

“Please just give me the disposable ones. I know you have some.”

They eat at the table, a decision made long ago purely for Sakusa’s sake. Atsumu has no issue curling up on the couch with takeout and tuning in to the television, would do so if he was the only one sharing the space at the moment, but if Sakusa can work with Atsumu’s obsessive triggers then Atsumu can work with Sakusa’s mysophobic ones. It’s an observed stalemate between them, however much neither wants to be the one to point it out. If they did so, things would just get weird and respectful. Nobody wants that.

They don’t say much, too hungry after practice to make conversation over lunch, and what used to be awkward silence doesn’t feel out of place anymore. It feels normal. Atsumu picks up the last spear of his chicken and splits it into two even pieces in his mouth.

“So,” he says once he’s done, closing the lid of his empty container. He’ll wash them later, reuse them for true leftovers, by hand in the sink to keep the plastic in shape. “It’s my turn to choose, ya _do_ ‘member that, right?”

Sakusa is still picking at the last of his rice, more pushing it around the bowl. He shakes his head. “No, I have something.”

“Omi—!”

“Will you— Hush.”

Atsumu laughs at the face he’s making, but is spurred by curiosity when Sakusa rifles through the 7-Eleven bag he’d brought. He leans forward in his seat to get a peek. There’s snacks, and Atsumu nearly reaches for the shrimp chips despite just having finished lunch, though Sakusa bypasses the pile for something at the bottom.

“You like this movie, right?”

“Oh, shut the _fuck_ up,” Atsumu says, and he points an accusatory finger at the smirk slowly curving onto Sakusa’s face. “We’re not watchin’ fuckin’ Ponyo.”

“But you like it.”

“Nope.”

“Open your cupboards.”

“Don’t— Kiyoomi ya don’t hafta _out_ me like this!”

Sakusa is laughing behind his hand. He’s also holding onto a short, clear plastic cup in the other, one he’d pillaged from Atsumu’s far-right cabinet. It’s part of a set of two, and it has Ponyo characters painted onto it.

“I think it’s cute.”

“Well then watch the damn movie yerself.”

“That’s not—” Sakusa stops himself and clears his throat, puts the cup back mercifully. “I just bought it today, but I don’t care to watch it by myself.”

Atsumu picks up the DVD from the table, noticing it’s still wrapped up in cellophane. He looks for a price sticker. “Should’ve thought’a that before spendin’ money on this.”

“It didn’t break the bank.”

“Pity.”

Sakusa dumps the half a bite of his rice left in the trash and moves both their containers to the sink. “Can I wash these?”

“Lemme do it,” Atsumu shoos him away. “I need ta— Yeah. Ya get it.” He’s already feeling a little off balance seeing them just sitting in the sink like that.

“When you’re done,” Kiyoomi takes the bag of snacks and Ponyo, holds the case up a little, “this’ll be ready to play.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Kind of, yeah.”

Atsumu doesn’t shove him out of the kitchen, but it’s a near thing.

* * *

**Day 4**   
**25 Days Remaining**

MSBY doesn’t have formal practice on Saturdays, but the gym stays open just in case any of the members want to work out on their own time. It isn’t like the mandatory off days of Wednesday and Sunday, days where they’re forced to rest their bodies and give them the opportunity to relax or spend time with families, and Atsumu has always thought that two days is already too much time to be spending off the court. He has yet to skip the extra day of informal practice, no matter if he ends up being the only one in the brightly-lit gymnasium, shooting serves to invisible receivers and setting to the walls.

Like now.

Atsumu’s the only one here, at least during these early hours when they usually have practice. He won’t know if anyone else will come in the afternoon or later, he’ll be gone by then, but it’s never been very easy to deviate from his schedule. Practice starts at 8 in the morning and ends at 11 on the days where Foster is there to coach them, and so even on the days when he isn’t, Atsumu will be there from 8 to 11 like always. It’s easier. It makes sense. It’s something he can rely on.

He’s been at it for two hours already, sweat brimming at his hairline and in the hollows either side of his nose. An entire cart’s worth of Mikasa volleyballs litters the opposite side of the court and Atsumu takes a second to breathe, hands on his hips. He needs to clean them up, start on serves again. Of the 81 he’s sent over the net, not enough have made it inside. He’s fucking up on the spike serves, hitting them with too much power when he’s just trying to get them to the very edge of the back of the court, and frustration is slowly mounting.

Not much has changed since high school. Not much has changed in that if Atsumu is frustrated and focusing that frustration on his own athletic abilities, he will not have the frame of mind to pause, back away, and let himself cool off.

So he doesn’t. He takes a drink from his water bottle, collects the volleyballs and pushes the cart off to the corner of the court, and starts it all over again. Atsumu grits his teeth, takes six steps back, and the 82nd serve goes out.

* * *

He’s sitting on a bench in the locker room, towel around his shoulders and absently scrolling through his phone, when a text comes through.

**MSBY Group**

**Meian Shuugo**  
Team dinner tonight @ 7. Address attached. No special occasion, kind of last minute so only come if you can

Atsumu purses his lips in discontent as he reads the alert without opening the message. It’s only nearing noon, but lingering frustration from practice has pushed his appetite away. He doesn’t feel like eating lunch now let alone dinner later, despite the voice in the back of his head that sounds like his mom and Osamu combined telling him how bad a decision that would be.

Still, he skips lunch. Atsumu reasons that it’ll give him more room for dinner. It wouldn’t do to have his team worry over him if he showed up and ordered nothing at all.

* * *

A few of them meet outside the apartment. There’d been a whole series of texts following their captain’s initial invitation, agreements and regretful rejections and plans to walk to the restaurant together if leaving from the complex. Atsumu is among them—Barnes and Shouyou and Tomas—and he shoves his hands in his jacket to stave off the windchill.

“Guess that’s all,” Tomas says once it seems they’ve loitered enough, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Ready to go?”

“Ehh, maybe one more minute, Tomas,” Atsumu says, and the blocker frowns at him. It’s already twenty minutes to the agreed upon 7 PM, so they’re cutting it close waiting for much longer. But, Atsumu thinks as he eyes movement beyond the glass front doors, it won’t matter much if they’re a little late. He would be remiss to ignore Sakusa’s earlier request.

Shouyou spies him second, pushing the door open with a sleeve over his hand and a black mask on his face. “Whaaa, Kiyoomi-san, you’re coming too?”

“I had the time,” he shrugs.

Barnes holds up his phone in reminder and says, “We didn’t think you would, considering you didn’t answer the group.”

“I told _some_ body.”

He hadn’t, not really. Atsumu had sent him a message first, knowing he’d be going to dinner and also knowing Sakusa didn’t have plans—never did, at least not before giving someone advanced notice. Had sent him _you’re coming tonight, can’t say no_ and Sakusa had replied with a noncommittal _whatever,_ and then, three hours later and just before Atsumu had planned to meet the rest out front, _wait for me outside._

Sakusa still hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing out Atsumu and laying the blame on him alone, and he squawks in indignation.

“Texting Atsumu doesn’t count.”

“Noted. Can we go?”

They do, the five of them a mismatched group shuffling through the city. Atsumu snickers at the picture Shouyou makes chatting sandwiched between their giants of Tomas and Barnes. Sakusa doesn’t waste time falling into step beside him.

“I looked up the place,” Atsumu says, a non-sequitur from the fallen quiet that has Sakusa’s eyes on him. “It’s pretty new, looks nice.”

“It’s just another izakaya.”

“Tch, yeah, but a new one. Probably means it’s clean.”

“Probably,” Sakusa agrees. “Though you didn’t pick it out, Meian did. I trust his judgement.”

Overdramatic like he’s getting paid, Atsumu pouts fully. “And ya don’t trust _mine,_ Omi-kun? How rude of ya!”

He catches the brief twitch of an eyelid, wishes Sakusa wasn’t wearing a mask just so he could see if it was accompanied by the wisp of a smile or if he really is annoyed. He gives nothing away, however predictable, face as still as ever.

“Well,” Atsumu continues, because he doesn’t need a reason to speak, “I hope it’s up ta yer standards, ya prince! We should start goin’ if it is.”

Sakusa hums and says, “Sure.”

The izakaya _is_ nice, tucked away on a fairly busy corner, and it’s smaller than usual but crowded with its recent opening. Meian is already at a table near the middle of the room, waves to get their attention as they step into the entryway.

“Trust his judgement, huh?” Atsumu says under his breath when Sakusa wipes down a corner of the low table and, pulled from inside of his jacket, lays a cloth on the cushion of his seat.

Sakusa doesn’t deign to give him a reaction, but also doesn’t put up a fight when Atsumu takes the spot cross-legged next to him.

As far as MSBY’s usual team dinners go, this one is relaxed. With a knowing rumble of amusement around the table, the present athletes attribute it to Inunaki and Bokuto both turning the invitation down—more so Bokuto, their excitable outside hitter a bit lax on his volume control, especially with Shouyou at his side. Therefore conversation is easy and unhurried, even if Atsumu misses the opportunity for chaos. They talk of practice, of movies they’ve watched and shows they need to catch up on, all over a mess of plates piled in the middle of the table for passing and sharing. Barnes orders a drink and a few others join him; Atsumu sticks with water and tea.

“The wife and I are on a documentary kick it seems,” Meian says, reaching for another gyoza, and Atsumu listens in. “That’s all she’s been wanting to watch lately.”

“Like any old doc, or she have a preference?” Tomas asks.

“Just anything! There were two last night—one on wildlife, the other on an internet criminal! How—?”

“How’s Akira doing, by the way?”

“Better than last time.”

“What is it now, six months along?”

“Nearly,” Meian nods, and then some emotion washes over him, outwardly expressing something unknown to Atsumu, and his captain lets out a jovial bark of a laugh. “God, this one’s going by so fast! I seriously can’t wait to meet them.”

For some reason this feels intimate, as if he’s eavesdropping on some thread of conversation he shouldn’t be privy to despite his captain talking to the table at large. Humming, he turns this thought over in his head, how excited Meian looks now, and picks at his plate.

“Ya ever think about kids, Omi-kun?”

It’s an innocent enough question, on topic with the rest of the team, and Atsumu puts on a nonchalant act.

Sakusa looks over at him as if he’s scrutinizing a particularly difficult stain, but then blinks away when he mutters, “Not at the moment,” as if that should be obvious.

“Hmm, yeah, ya definitely seem like the type to hate ‘em.”

“You’re right.”

“Hah!”

Sakusa takes a drink and then says, “I’ve heard it’s different with your own, though.”

Through a cough Atsumu manages to pass off as a reaction to the spicy tuna he just inhaled, he reinvents his expression. “Aww, lookit that,” he jeers and gives himself so much credit to the way his voice comes out level. “Yer a prickly guy with a secret soft side, huh?”

Sakusa murmurs, “You got me.”

And Atsumu pushes back his bangs.

* * *

“I’m going to head back now.”

Atsumu turns away from listening to Barnes’ nonsense story of his friends in high school to look over at Sakusa, calling it a night while there’s still food on his plate.

“Don’t tell me yer already overwhelmed.”

“Not overwhelmed,” he sniffs. “Just bored.”

Atsumu sticks his tongue out, says, “Sorry we ain’t entertainin’ enough for ya.”

“You’re forgiven.”

He likes the smirk—smile? Whatever it is, it’s small—that his laughter pulls from Sakusa, no matter that it’s halfway hidden behind the rim of his glass.

“I would like to take a shower, though,” Sakusa continues. “There are a lot of people here.”

There are, Atsumu can agree with that. They’ve been at this center table for a while now, and other patrons and service staff filter around them constantly, coming and going and chatting loudly too close to their backs at times. He presses his lips into a thin line, understanding settling him. “Another one?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” he shrugs. It’s later than he usually leaves these dinners, so there’s nothing much else Atsumu can say.

“Here.” Kiyoomi pushes their plates together and moves over what’s left on his with a spare set of chopsticks, makes room among Atsumu’s sashimi for the remaining takoyaki and edamame. “Eat these.”

“Ehh, that’s too much, Omi,” he says. “I’m not that hungry.”

Kiyoomi quirks a brow. “You’ve barely eaten.”

“So?”

A standoff of stubbornness they’ve fallen into again, a routine in and of itself. But Sakusa sets the chopsticks down and brings out his face mask in the end, indulging the option of letting things go. “Whatever, do what you want,” he says.

Happening to have noticed the motion, Meian calls from across the other end of the table, “Leaving already, Sakusa?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Sakusa doesn’t return the others’ goodbyes verbally, opting to dip his head in acknowledgement before sidestepping a couple standing near their table and getting lost in the throng. Atsumu remains bereft, hanging on the edge of an admittance. He lets it hover for a mere moment as he eyes the gifted food in front of him, then shrugs it off his shoulders in a practiced motion.

Ordering slows not long after, everyone a bit too stuffed to even finish what’s left in the plates and bowls crowding the middle of the table. Staff comes to clean some of it away, take another call for any last drinks. A short glass of beer for them all, sans Atsumu. He shouldn’t yield tonight.

Conversation lags too, words impeded by satiation, and Atsumu leans an elbow on the table and chin in hand with hooded eyes, picking at the edamame. He’ll eat some, if only to prove a point that’s already passed. Pops the soybeans in two at a time so he can have one on each side of his molars, finds inconvenience at the way many of the pods are sets of three.

He’s honed in on trying to balance each bite and the way it feels in his mouth, deaf to the soft comments from teammates mainly about things he has no interest in, but Tomas standing from the table draws his and everyone else’s attention.

“Aw shit,” the man says, and he’s staring down at his phone. “I’ll be right back, guys.”

Shouyou pipes up, “Something bad happen, Adriah-san?”

“Nah, just gotta call my brother back.”

“The one in Germany? Or—”

“Yeah, jeez he’s probably about to go into work—kid’s got a new job, said I’d talk to him on his drive.”

“How kind,” Atsumu says, and he actually means it. As Tomas heads toward the bathrooms with his phone already pressed to his ear, Atsumu’s own feels heavy in his back pocket. It’s like a pull, suddenly, and as his teammates around him go back to their own drinks, their own lives, his focus wanders elsewhere. In a half-formed thought he stands as well, making a show of stretching his arms over his head.

“Actually guys,” he says and straightens his shirt out, “Imma head out, too.” He gives an apologetic smile to Shouyou’s complaint of losing another so soon.

“Okay, Atsumu,” Meian nods, another realist. “Y’have a good night.”

“Thanks for the meal, Cap’n!”

“Anytime.”

Atsumu takes his sweater from the unoccupied seat beside him and shrugs it on as he meanders back to the front, phone in hand.

* * *

When they had graduated high school, and Atsumu was forced to confront what it truly meant for Osamu to have quit volleyball for _food service_ of all things, he had been inconsolable.

It was not specifically because of Osamu backing down from what he had been sure was their shared dream, though he can’t deny that being a factor. Rather it was almost entirely a result of having to live without his brother for the first time in his entire life. A change in the routine he’d grown up with, that he’d felt safe in.

Those first few months after moving out, after having something to focus his attention on other than his predicted future being minced to a pulp, Atsumu had very nearly been housebound. It was safer that way, avoiding the city outside because every time he did go out he would only be reminded of all the awful ways Osamu could die while on his own; getting on the train that could derail, crossing a street full of traffic, even just being around sketchy people sometimes could set him off if it was late enough. And it was never a fear for his own safety, no, it was _always_ for Osamu.

Atsumu had tried to rationalize it one night, arguing with himself, with the part of his brain he hates, the part of his brain he knows is wrong but can’t do shit about just how completely it leads his life. He’d thought, _Why am I not like this with mom? Why am I not also worried over her?_ and the answer had come simultaneously, before he’d even finished posing the question, _It’s different._

And it is. There is still worry for his mother, but he does not _worry over_ her. She has lived a life without Atsumu in it, and he knows she can take care of herself without him, as rough as that is to admit. Osamu has never lived a life where Atsumu is not also there, and as far as Atsumu’s concerned he is the only thing keeping his brother safe. All his out-there behaviors have a reason, in his mind, and if Atsumu ever happened to stop, or to forget to do them, he doesn’t know what would come of it.

(Nothing would, but he can’t be certain. He can’t bank on a possibility.)

Housebound until the turn of the season, leaves browning in the chill air, and Atsumu had hated himself. It finally took Osamu giving him a call or sending him a message at the end of each day, forcefully exposing himself to the exact situations that triggered this obsession with his brother spontaneously dying, and, ultimately, a hell of a lot of time just for Atsumu to get used to his new normal.

Learning that he could quell this fear by washing his hands a second time, not counting the seconds but instead counting how many times he curved one palm over the other, helped tremendously. Even if he also knew it was ridiculous, that it had no bearing on reality, the actions still soothed him.

So now, whether it’s after the bathroom or before cooking or when he doesn’t want to wear gloves just to be in Sakusa’s shitty apartment, Atsumu will wash his hands twice. Once for himself, and once for Osamu.

* * *

“Whattaya want?”

“Ya start answerin’ the phone like that?”

“When it’s you, yeah.”

It’s later in the evening than he’d thought leaving the izakaya, in time for the barcrawl crowds to begin their pilgrimage through the city streets, and Atsumu passes his phone to the other hand so he can pull on the hood of his sweatshirt. This isn’t the context for anyone to recognize him and completely ignore the call he’s on.

“I called at the right time, then?”

Osamu says, “Well I answered ya, didn’t I? ‘m actually just now headin’ home.”

He used to know his brother’s schedule during the early days of Onigiri Miya’s opening, when the shop was small and closed in the afternoon, and if Atsumu ever happened to need to talk to him it wouldn’t be difficult to reach him. With the shop’s steadily growing popularity—according to Osamu, that is, though Atsumu would be hard-pressed to find fault in that claim, would simultaneously be hard-pressed to admit he’s proud of his brother—the hours they’re open are later, and Osamu stays behind past closing more often than not. “Like a real manager,” Atsumu had teased once, and, “At least one’a us knows how to deal with responsibility,” Osamu hadn’t hesitated to bite back.

Therefore only now, just before 10 o’clock though he knows Osamu closes at 8:30, is he able to get a hold of him.

“Hmph. Guess ya did.”

“I’ll ask again,” Osamu says, and there’s the sound of traffic in the background on his end. All Atsumu can do at the moment is count his steps out loud, under his breath instead of in the back of his mind, and the breaks in the sidewalk match up with his stride really well today, and so he shoves that nervous heart back down. “Whattaya want?”

“Yeah. Three weeks and we gotta visit mom.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Yeah—”

“What else?”

Atsumu clicks his jaw shut, tries to come up with a lie, settles on a promising, “Hm?”

“Don’t even, what else didja want? Ya ain’t callin’ me for that.” And he’s right, which is the worst part.

He stops at the intersection notoriously long on its lights, glancing over the cars trailing through and the handful of other pedestrians standing in wait for the crossing. The air is cooling in the night, and he muffles a chill. Atsumu clears his throat and taps on his thigh four times.

“I’m comin’ over to yers tomorrow.”

“Yer what?”

“Yer closed on Sundays still?”

Osamu sighs and it crackles through the line. “Yeah, alright.”

The light changes and Atsumu crosses with the rest of the crowd. He isn’t too far from the apartment now, five minutes at most, and he’s just yearning for a shower and his bed. It’ll be an early night for sure. He says brightly, “Better make me some breakfast, I’ll be up there early!”

“Ugh, how early?”

“Mm… ten?”

“Ya call that early?”

“Well I can’t make the train go any faster, fuckwad.”

“Right, right. ‘Course.”

“So whattaya gonna make?”

“Nope, yer gonna hafta grab somethin’ on yer way up if yer hungry tomorrow, it’s my day off I ain’t makin’ shit for you.”

Their back-and-forth—Atsumu whining with put-upon dramatics, Osamu biting back with put-upon annoyance—continues while he makes his way home. Atsumu is politely and quietly grateful for Osamu staying on the line.

As he’s turning the key in his own lock, his brother says, “‘Kay, I’m home now, can I go?”

“God, people’r right, we’re _so_ in synch.”

“Huh?”

“‘m just gettin’ home myself.”

“You were out?”

“Not drinking,” he assures that sword-edge tone. “Just dinner with the team.” It’s cold in the apartment and he keeps his sweatshirt on for now, kicking on the small heater sitting in the corner.

Osamu hums acknowledgement and Atsumu picks up the sudden thread of mischief before he’s even aware he’s done so.

“So—”

“I swear to the gods ‘Samu whatever yer ‘boutta say is not worth it.”

“Isn’t worth what?” he asks, and he’s _laughing_ like a prick.

And Atsumu doesn’t have an answer for that sort of question, tries to easily sidestep having to give one with a sharp, “I’m hangin’ up.”

“Hey, wait, all I was askin’ was if ya were still gettin’ on with yer teammates.”

“Yep,” he pops the ‘p’ and falls back on his couch. “Totally good with everyone. Ya didn’t even need to ask that.” Osamu hums again, purposefully a nuisance, but Atsumu cuts that off before this can get any further embarrassing. “Now I thought ya wanted to go, and I kinda gotta sleep if I‘m catchin’ the train in the mornin’.”

“Uh huh, okay, but we ain’t done here.”

“Sure.”

“Take yer meds?”

“I will.”

“I’m serious.”

Atsumu scoffs, “So am I! Okay! Goodnight!”

Osamu laughs lightly and Atsumu can tell when he turns from the speaker to cough. “Damn, okay. See ya tomorrow.”

“See ya, love you.”

“Love you, brat.”

He’s hung up on before he can get any other word in, and Atsumu presses his lips into a thin line to hold back the laugh that Osamu doesn’t deserve, no matter that he wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. He almost wishes he didn’t have practice Monday, just so he could stay a night at Osamu’s. It’s been a good while since they’ve seen each other in person, but Atsumu will have to make do with a day trip. His brother isn’t going anywhere, not if he has anything to say about it.

Just before he crawls into bed he washes down a pill, antidepressants because that’s all they can give him, and curses Osamu out in his head. He’s only half-convinced that twin telepathy is real, but if it is he certainly wants to use it to its fullest.

* * *

**Day 6**   
**23 Days Remaining**

The apartment is in a particularly discomforting state of disarray. Atsumu sits cross-legged in front of his coffee table amidst it all and tries his best to ignore the way his skin itches. He’s not in the greatest of moods. His frown is evident and frustration rushes through him in waves.

When the doorbell rings, Atsumu clenches his jaw and nearly ignores it.

“Who’s there?” he calls from his place on the floor, straightening the coasters for the fifth time and still not liking how they’re stacked at the corner of the table. Maybe their order is off? He begins to flip through them again.

And then whoever is at his door starts knocking—no, that’s closer to banging—as if the doorbell wasn’t enough for them, and Atsumu scowls deeper.

“I said who’s there!” he yells at a volume he should definitely be heard at. He could put the coaster with the bird silhouette on the bottom… and then the cat, dog, and _then_ the fish on top?

They knock—bang—again, deaf to his words.

“Fer fuck’s _sake.”_

He brings the coasters with him, because he isn’t done sorting them, it doesn’t quite feel right yet, and if he leaves them on the coffee table he will only be thinking of how wrong everything is the rest of the night. Atsumu steps over piles of books and knickknacks that used to sit on the currently bare bookshelf beside his television, hours into rearranging his living room and still not close to finished. Whoever is deciding to interrupt better have something important to say.

Wrenching the door open and meeting Sakusa’s eyes, he only grows further irritated. “God, whattaya want?”

Sakusa doesn’t immediately answer, opting instead to arch a silent questioning brow, probably frowning behind his mask. He still has his fist raised as if to knock again.

Atsumu doesn’t have much patience right now. Not for him, and not for the bickering they usually like to fall into.

“Fine, whatever, come in unless ya wanna jus’ stand there all weird.” He turns his back on him and leaves the door wide open. He needs to finish organizing this shit now otherwise it’ll never get done.

(It’s his own fault, he knows, _he knows._ He just overestimates himself. He believes in his ability to overcome compulsions before they happen, and then is driven with a too-strong need to act upon them once they inevitably rear their overpowering, controlling, abysmal head.)

The order of the coasters is correct, he decides, and now only needs to keep stacking them until he can finally move on to whichever he picks as his next monumental task of the day. They have a tough rubbery texture and don’t make much noise when placed over and over on the wooden coffee table.

Atsumu hears the door shut and only out of the corner of his eye does he see Sakusa toe off his shoes and come to stand at the edge of the room, hands in his coat pockets. His mask is already hanging off one ear.

“Yer really freakin’ me out, Omi—”

“Are you okay?”

The question isn’t particularly funny, but Atsumu laughs nonetheless. It tastes bitter. He lines up the coasters perfectly with each other and lets his hands drop, satisfied with the way they fit into the space, and looks at Sakusa.

“Are ya mockin’ me?”

Sakusa blinks twice. “Of course not.” He looks stiff, and his voice sounds even more so.

“Huh,” Atsumu huffs and turns his back on him again, facing the pile of books he doesn’t read anymore and the old JUMP issues and Volleyball Monthlys he only keeps because he hates throwing things away. They’ve been sitting in the same order on the bookshelf and collecting dust for years, and he doubts he’ll have to change it up now. It’s only a matter of starting the cleanup and seeing how it fits presently. “Okay, then I’m fine.”

“I didn’t think you knew how to clean.”

It’s an obvious ploy to get Atsumu to talk, because they both know it’s false. Sakusa has witnessed him stand at the sink for minutes on end and patiently scrub furniture with his lip caught between teeth and even refuse to eat off his own dishware until he wipes them down twice (the latter only on certain days, the worst days, where—) and so his statement now, in the tense air of Atsumu’s apartment, is most certainly a lie.

If he was in a better headspace he might be paying attention more. His irritation is heavy, a byproduct and culmination of strong compulsions and dark thoughts and not enough sleep. Atsumu sneers at the floor.

“Yeah well, jus’ ‘cause I don’t go ‘round sanitizin’ every god damned thing I gotta look at doesn’t mean I ain’t clean.” His accent deepens when his mood sours, and it’s just the slightest bit humiliating, but he flushes not because of that but because of the sharp, “Wow,” that gets thrown at his back. He can’t see Sakusa’s face. He’s choosing not to look at it.

Atsumu does not often have compulsions to clean, not in the way Sakusa does, and it makes sense. The need comes from different sources, from the different ways both of their brains are just completely fucked up. It’s a topic they had spoken of plainly and without any usual banter only once before. That single time had been so much less hostile than whatever this is now.

But before Atsumu can think of a way to snap back at whatever snide thing Sakusa’s sure to say, he hears the man sigh out a heavy breath. It diminishes all promise of a nice, familiar argument.

“Whatever. I can tell this isn’t something I should be here for,” he says, and Atsumu frowns in confusion more than anything else. “I’ll just go.”

“Well, wait,” and it comes out before he even has a chance to stop it, once more turning back to look at Sakusa already stepping toward the door.

“Why?” he asks, dark eyes giving away nothing. “You should finish… this.”

He should. He _should._ He absolutely _needs_ to and thank the gods Sakusa notices it so he doesn’t have to mention anything himself. His skin is still itching, on the back of his neck and his hands and feet, and the lingering feeling of being off balance is a sharp cattle prod to the top of his brain, lancing through his skull and lighting up all the nasty abnormalities that are the _fucking_ cause of all this in the first place.

Putting it off for one more moment, though, shouldn’t be too difficult.

(Overestimating himself _again,_ he never learns his lesson, so _stupid.)_

“What’d you even come here for? Yer here for like five seconds without even sayin’ anythin’ and then just wanna leave? The hell’s up with that?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Sakusa says and leans down to fix the heel of his shoe as he slides them back on. His voice comes out muffled into the floor when he adds on, “Another time. I don’t want to get in the way.”

It’s an apology.

Atsumu pouts because he can’t even be angry anymore, at least not directed with any rational basis at his teammate. He can be angry at other things—himself, mostly. He waits until Sakusa straightens and meets his eyes.

“When I’m done here” —he gestures to the entirety of his living room— “lemme know what ya wanted.”

It’s his own apology.

“Text me.”

“Hm. Might be late.”

“Sure, I’ll be up.”

Atsumu finally smiles, and he realizes with a jolt that it’s the first time he’s done so today, and it’s absolutely mortifying. “‘Course ya will. _Gaming.”_

Sakusa glowers. “I’m allowed hobbies.” He settles his mask back over his mouth and nose and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m leaving now.”

“Sure.”

Once he’s gone, and Atsumu is left buried in the mess again, it takes him a minute to push himself up and lock the door behind him. He turns the latch and hears the click and focuses all of his attention on that sound and the image of the set deadbolt because he is _not_ going to worry over it half an hour later and redundantly check the lock to make sure it truly is in place.

He kneels back down with a grimace, knees against the rug and toes propping himself up in front of the bookcase, and gets back to work.

* * *

Miya Atsumu has not thought of Sakusa Kiyoomi since high school, but seeing him now, newly recruited to the MSBY Black Jackals and standing in front of him for the first time in years, he has only one thought on his mind.

He’s _missed_ this guy.

MSBY is a good team. It’s a _nice_ team, and Atsumu likes them. He fits in well with both veterans and fresh faces, not that it had been particularly difficult to do so; he has a sharp knack for masks, after all. But he truly likes his team, he _does._ He can rely on them for an entertaining night out, dinner and karaoke and a beach trip disguised as a bonding exercise, and he can rely on them on the court, defending the back and attacking his sets with all the ease of professionals, and Atsumu feels light with the praise they give him in return.

There’s only one glaring issue.

They’re devastatingly boring.

Atsumu thrives on attention and banter and getting under people’s skin in as borderline provoking as he can be; he seeks it out in people and decides how he’ll regard them depending on just how well they bite back. He’d grown up with Osamu, sarcasm trailing at the edge of every word and fun in the form of knowing no matter what they said neither would take much of it to heart, and he’d grown into his personality on a high school team with Suna Rintarou, a snide bastard with a penchant for blackmail wearing the mask of cool level-headedness most of the time.

A feeding ground for Atsumu, who now plays with the most genuinely friendly and _good_ people he’s had the luxury of meeting. No mean back-and-forth for him to rely on, just simple understanding and kindness. Tiring, overwhelmingly so.

Therefore Sakusa, though he’s loath to admit, is a welcome respite.

“Lemme receive some’a those serves,” Atsumu says on one of Sakusa’s first formal practices with the Jackals. “Wanna see how many service aces ya can still get.”

A challenge Sakusa accepts without hesitation, and he manages to score three on him before Atsumu can perfectly dig the next—two hit the court, one bounces off his arms at too harsh an angle to be kept in play, and Atsumu grins at him through the net.

“That’s three,” Sakusa points out.

“I ain’t a libero, ya know. Would’ve been different if Inunaki had been here.” Inunaki, paired with Meian for serve-receives on the second court, barks a laugh at his words.

“Neither am I,” Sakusa says and passes him a ball. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Atsumu gets two on him, and the flames of competition burn in his chest as he meets his new teammate’s eyes and finds the smug satisfaction emblazoned in them. There’s a smile forming beneath those eyes, aimed at him with no hint of remorse, and Atsumu returns a wild one of his own.

* * *

**miya atsumu**  
are ya winning?

His living room is clean. As is his kitchen, and his room, his bathroom. It’s the middle of the night and they have practice in five hours but his apartment is finally completely reorganized and clean again.

Again, as if it wasn’t before.

Sakusa had told him to send a message once he could, but it’s right on the cusp of when he’d expect the guy to turn things off and get to sleep. His phone buzzes, however, not a minute later.

**omi-omi**  
there isn’t a win condition for stardew valley

Atsumu himself is in bed. He’s exhausted and can’t sleep, a deadly combination, eyes almost too dry to keep closed for long before they start to hurt. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night prior yet it doesn’t seem to matter much; he’s only riding on four hours since he woke up for the train to Osamu’s yesterday morning. Or, two mornings ago—he’s not picky with specifics, and his mind is hazy.

It’s only noticeable now, tucked into the mattress under sheets that are beginning to warm with him, but his phone is a distraction he can’t help but use.

**miya atsumu**  
what happened to wow

 **omi-omi**  
needed a break

 **miya atsumu**  
so  
what did you want  
you know  
earlier

The ellipsis showing Sakusa is typing pops up, then stops. It’s gone for so long that the screen dims and darkens, and Atsumu frowns. And then his phone vibrates on his chest with an incoming call, and the unexpected bright light makes him squint. He’s still frowning when he answers.

“Uh, Omi?”

“Hm?”

“Didja mean to call me?”

“Yes?”

“Uh—”

“I’m trying to play, so you’re on speaker,” Sakusa says. “I’m not sending you a message every ten seconds. This is easier.”

Right. Easier. Still, this is a new context, listening to Sakusa’s voice so close to when he expects to be falling asleep. It’s weird. It’s a lot. Atsumu takes a breath.

“Ya know ya really should be goin’ to sleep, Omi-kun,” he simpers.

“You’re not allowed to tell me that right now.”

“Hey!” Atsumu tries to sound offended, is belied by the laugh lacing his words. “At least I’m in bed.”

He can hear the accompanying eyeroll when Sakusa snorts. “Okay, that makes two of us. You’re not very good at trying to chide me.”

“Chide?”

“Scold. Discipline—”

“I know what it means, you— Okay, whatever, I know yer laughin’ at me. Who uses that word? _Chide?”_

“I’m just surprised you didn’t latch on to the bed mention.”

“Eh, easy pickings,” Atsumu says, and doesn’t say how he’s not sure he could make a joke about it when his heart is in a vice.

Kiyoomi hums at that, murmurs, “You’d know.”

“…ya callin’ me easy pickings, Omi?”

“Not in the slightest.” And he says it with this unknown surety that has Atsumu biting his tongue. Figuratively as well as fitting it between his canines and putting just enough pressure for it to be noticeable, staring into the darkness of his bedroom.

Atsumu yawns.

“If you’re late to practice because you couldn’t wake up in time, and not because of a legitimate reason,” Sakusa says, “Coach Foster isn’t going to be happy.”

“Don’t worry about me, Omi-kun, I’ll be jus’ fine.”

“Really? Because you sound tired.”

“No I don’t.”

“Don’t be a child, I’m trying to— I’m trying to help.” The last comes out half-muffled, as if Sakusa hadn’t yet decided if he wanted to say it before it was already out between them. It’s surprisingly open, coming from him.

“Hmm? Whattaya mean?” he drawls.

The line goes quiet save for the slight sounds of covers shifting and the buttons of Sakusa’s Switch. It’s a shame he’s only on speakerphone, kind of wants to hear the quiet breath Sakusa lets out in his ear instead of filtered through a room, though he can’t help but tamp down on that awful yearning immediately. Atsumu’s eyes finally stay closed on the tails of a slow blink, lulled by the white noise and a calmness that promptly swoops over him. Perhaps he really should sleep, follow the advice of someone who is, apparently, just trying to help.

He’s still waiting on an answer, thinks that maybe Sakusa is attempting to get his words together. This conversation, wherever it’s turned thanks to Sakusa showing some genuine care for once, might be too touchy-feely for the guy. Reap what you sow, Atsumu thinks, and turns over to nose into his pillow, keeping his phone firmly pressed against his ear.

And then it’s quiet for almost too long, and Atsumu makes a curious noise and mumbles, “Omi?”

Sakusa sucks his teeth, the _tsk_ loud and sudden and causes him to jolt just slightly further awake. “Was hoping you’d fall asleep on your own.”

“Mmno, was waitin’ on you.”

“Hm?”

“Ya know, cuz…” he scoffs softly at himself, struggling to remember exactly what he’d been trying to get out of this. “Oh, how’re ya helpin’ me?”

There’s movement, and then Kiyoomi’s voice comes much closer, taken off speaker and Atsumu can feel that quiet tone in his head when he says, “You need sleep. Have you been… _cleaning_ this entire time?”

 _Cleaning,_ he says, and even if it’s technically true Atsumu knows it’s because he doesn’t want to say _dealing with compulsions._

“Jus’ got done, earlier. But I feel better. Like in the space, ya know?”

“Good. Then go to sleep,” he reiterates.

“How can ya be so kind while soundin’ like yer constipated.”

“Atsumu.”

“‘m goin’, ‘m goin’… You too.”

Kiyoomi huffs a breath and softly agrees, “Yeah.”

And Atsumu dips further into his pillow and says, “Okay.”

There is no further back-and-forth, just an edge of silence on both sides of the call before Sakusa leaves him with a farewell, Atsumu too far into the clutches of a highly-needed and well-deserved rest to do the same. It’s nice, and it hurts. He doesn’t think Sakusa sees them as friends, but on occasions like these, where dialogue is easy and Atsumu is left reeling, he likes to believe they could be. They could be friends, and they could be so much more.

* * *

(In the morning, while he’s brushing his teeth after waking perfectly in time to leave for practice, Atsumu will stop and frown at himself in the mirror, remember the late-night call and realize he never did figure out just what Sakusa had wanted by visiting him in the first place.)

* * *

**Day 10**   
**19 Days Remaining**

Atsumu doesn’t drink very often. In fact he tends to stay away from it. It isn’t dangerous, but it counteracts his medication and just leaves the efforts of curbing his symptoms fairly null. Plus he used to drink quite a bit, just before he was even old enough to buy alcohol in the first place, and while enjoyable in the immediacy of relieving all the shit caught up in his head, he always hated the way he felt later.

“Yo, Atsumu, right?” Here, take some shots with us!”

Still, it would be rude to turn them down.

It’s a very late birthday celebration for Bokuto—difficult to find the time for everyone, only over a month later had he let Atsumu, and everyone else, know they finally had a weekend where schedules matched up—and Atsumu recognizes most of these guys even if he hasn’t seen them in years. It’s almost like he’s in a room with strangers, if those strangers used to want to defeat each other in Inter Highs and Nationals.

He accepts the shot glass from Nekoma’s old captain—Kuroo, right, his brain helpfully reminds—and steps up to the high-top table crowded with a handful of people, steps in between him and someone else, one of Bokuto’s old high school teammates. They cheer, tap their glasses, tap the table, and down the shot. It goes down bright and Atsumu wipes at his mouth, throat burning.

“Fuck, was that just vodka?”

Somebody laughs, he has no idea what their name is, and yells, “More where that came from!” Another shot is pressed into his palm.

They have this bar mostly to themselves, the last one a bit more crowded than anyone had been comfortable with, pressed into a scant amount of booths. For around twenty athletes and former athletes and a few of Bokuto’s siblings and cousins, they needed the space. Atsumu had managed a couple beers at the last place, hoping to maybe get through the night purely buzzed instead of edging that line into being drunk, but if these guys wanted to do _vodka_ shots, he doubts he’ll be able to stick to that plan.

He could say no, he realizes, but it’s been a good while since he’s had anything alcoholic in his system, let alone drinking with others just to have fun, so he doesn’t really want to.

The hangover he’ll have tomorrow morning, as well as the probable dizziness thanks to those shitty pills, are things for future him to deal with.

Those shitty pills, which he hasn’t taken yet, _fuck_ he has to remember to do so before passing out later.

(Or, or—a small yet harmful part of himself brings up the idea of just skipping it altogether, he doesn’t need it, he feels _good_ right now, what’s he need paroxetine for?)

“You good, man?” the guy to his right drops a hand on his shoulder. This is the one from the pharmacy, he’s pretty sure. Silver-blond, narrowed eyes, he’ll recognize the name if someone else says it. Atsumu sends him a grin.

“Gimme another shot and I will be.”

Another round comes by and the whole table takes it quick. He’s only in for three more, when half of them split up and chat around, and Atsumu does the same, pleasantly content.

This bar has a couple back rooms reserved for karaoke, and once one was vacated by a party of what looked like university kids their own group had swooped in to set it aside for themselves. It’s small, not everyone can fit at once, but it’s there for those who want to drunkenly scream into a microphone or show off their tenuous talent for holding a tune. Meian surprises many with the latter, his captain completely sloshed but admittedly a decent singer. Atsumu and Shouyou, as well as those he doesn’t know as well, give the man a round of applause and a few wolf whistles when Meian takes a bow and stumbles off the short stage.

He’s draped across the smaller couch in the room, a loveseat at best, leather cool on his heated skin, and watches over his shoulder in building amusement as Shouyou pulls a reluctant Kageyama up to the mic. The redhead has already convinced a handful of others into duets, and he’s wholly entertaining in how terrible he is at shouting out a melody—as well as the partners he keeps singling out of the crowd.

He startles with a sharp yelp of surprise and whips around when his ankles, stretched out on the cushions, are grabbed and moved. Familiar curls catch his eye, and his pulse relaxes.

“Fuck, Omi, ya can’t jus’ give me a heart attack like that!”

Sakusa sits down and drops Atsumu’s legs atop his lap. Atsumu hasn’t seen much of him tonight, figured he’d be finding the least crowded corner and carving out a gap for himself to whittle away just enough time before dipping to seem polite for a gathering this size. He’s actually amazed Sakusa’s still here, amazed even more that he’s apparently put aside his need for space to sneak into the cramped karaoke room and sit on a couch Atsumu’s taken over.

“I hadn’t seen you out there in a minute. When did you come back here?” Sakusa asks. He has what looks to be a new glass of some mixed drink, a tiny red straw among the ice. Fancy.

Atsumu pushes his bangs back and smiles. “Were ya lookin’ fer me?”

“Mm. Yeah.”

“Oh yeah?”

“How much have you had to drink?”

It’s not a question he was expecting, and behind him Shouyou and Kageyama begin a janky and stilted, respectively, rendition of a popular oldie. Atsumu purses his lips and swallows the hilarity of watching Sakusa shoot that particular duo a quick look of distaste. “I dunno,” he says. “Was doin’ shots with some guys earlier, though.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sakusa sighs. His thumb is on Atsumu’s ankle below the cuff of his jeans and Atsumu bites his tongue. Either not noticing (unlikely) or not mentioning (unlikely for a _different, awful_ reason) the contact, Sakusa tacks on, “You’re not supposed to drink that much.”

Immediate defensive reaction, Atsumu waves him off with a hearty, “S’fine! I’m under control!” Then actually thinks about it and frowns. “Wh… wait, huh? How d’ya even know that?”

“Your brother let me know.”

“Yer talkin’ to fuckin’ _‘Samu?”_

Sakusa takes a sip from his drink, gives him an unimpressed series of blinks. “No, I’m not talking to him.”

“Good, stay ‘way from that shithead.” Atsumu doesn’t know why he says it, certainly shouldn’t have an issue with his teammate and his twin getting along, certainly _should_ see it as a decent turn of events. Nonetheless he shifts to watch the mess having fun on stage with a sudden disinterest, letting out a yawn.

From his peripherals, out of his line of sight, he notices Sakusa reach for something with a muttered word of thanks over the back of the couch. Next thing he’s aware of Kiyoomi leans over to press a bottle of water to his cheek, cold condensation jerking him in his seat.

“Drink this.”

“Ugh, fine.” He twists off the cap and downs a sizable amount, unconsciously parched, and wipes the dew left on his cheek. His face feels warm.

The room falls a bit quieter with the end of the song, nobody yet jumping to be the next one up.

“Omi, hey, let’s sing a song.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Aww c’mon, ‘m sure ya sound great!”

“Get up there yourself, I’m sure you do too.”

The alcohol must be running through him in waves, if the flush of sudden heat to his face is any indication. “Hmm, ya think Shouyou’s up ta another duet?”

Kiyoomi taps his glass and tilts his head, making a show of thinking it over. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Atsumu only wants to get through this single song, paired with a steadily tiring Shouyou whose voice is a little shot after a whole handful of rounds at the mic. They still make it fun, grinning and laughing at each other through the words, and he feels loose and happy and whatever that brief slump was earlier is not a thought in his mind. He’d chosen what they were to sing, an upbeat and quick-fire [track](https://open.spotify.com/track/37d82ZLspqVQZHchkxg13y?si=9461271cacaa474f) from someone he actually knows and frequently listens to, and Atsumu doesn’t claim to be a professional singer or anything but he thinks he’s sure as shit nailing this. And then of course, because some of these bits are too rapid for a tongue-tied nearly-drunk Atsumu, he fumbles over some of his lines even as the lyrics show up on the screen right in front of him. It’s honestly funny, not embarrassing as pockets of the crowd shout along with them, and Atsumu glances out past the lights and gravitates to Kiyoomi, who looks to be having his own fun just watching Atsumu make a fool of himself up here. He lets that fuel him into finishing strong, wrapping an arm around Shouyou’s shoulders as they harp out the last few lines perfectly together, and it’s satisfying when the audience cheers for them over the fading music.

Someone passes him as he steps down off the stage to get at the list of songs for their own go at it, and Atsumu thanks Shouyou for the performance.

“It was fun!” Shouyou agrees. “But I think I’m done for now, I need another drink!”

Atsumu feels that, despite being fully buzzed. The jaunt on stage only seemed to heighten the fuzzy feeling in his head. He waves goodbye to the blocker who bounces out of the room on a quest for the bar and stalks back to the couch. He promptly falls down on it, against the opposite armrest from Kiyoomi, and stretches his legs back across him.

“Ya think I could go pro if this volleyball thing ever falls through?”

“You might want to stick to your day job.”

His laughter engulfs him.

It goes like this:

Atsumu manages to persuade Sakusa into relinquishing the argument of whether he should have just one more drink or not by pure determination and unrelenting whining, a talent honed from before Atsumu even learned how to speak, and comes back to the karaoke room and this carved out corner they made for themselves with a similar mixed drink to the one Sakusa continues to nurse, because, “It looked good!” And it is, good and dangerous with how little he tastes the alcohol, but he promises both Sakusa and his inner, still somewhat sane, self that this is definitely the last one of the night. The gifted water bottle is half-gone anyway, wedged into the couch cushions somewhere under him, so he’s fine.

It goes like this, also:

Atsumu finishes the drink and piles the emptied glass on the nearby low-set coffee table along with the rest of the clutter, falls against the armrest and tilts his head back, eyes closing in an exhaustion garnered from the end of this third hour with a sustained pour of alcohol in his stomach. In this position, the darkness is an outlet for his thoughts to wander.

It’s a Friday night, he remembers with a thorough shock through his system. It’s a Friday night, and Atsumu is going to absolutely _hate_ himself in the morning, because just because he might (definitely will) end up with a hangover does not mean he’ll skip out on extra practice for the weekend. He’ll be at the gym as always, bright and early in six hours, 8 AM to 11. He has to.

“Oh my god,” he whines feebly, throwing a hand over his eyes and he might be tearing up. “This is gonna suck.”

Kiyoomi, though surely he can’t know exactly what Atsumu means, doesn’t help when he pinches his ankle and says, “You have only yourself to blame.”

“Fuck you.” It comes out quick and sharp, but Kiyoomi only laughs at his words, the absolute bastard. “Take me home, Omi.”

“You’re ready to go?”

“I hafta,” and he drops his hand to the couch, eyebrows downturned. “I hafta go _now_ ‘cause there’s _practice_ in the mornin’.” He’s still whining, he can hear it in his voice, hear the way it pitches up like a child’s and it’s completely unbecoming. Kiyoomi doesn’t seem to mind, of course, looks like he’s enjoying Atsumu’s misery. Never one to have much of a filter over his words, worse with this weak of a tolerance, Atsumu says unprompted, “You’re a dick. I hate you.”

Kiyoomi smiles like he doesn’t believe him. He shouldn’t.

(Kiyoomi doesn’t even try to tell him there’s technically no practice tomorrow morning, that it’s optional, that Atsumu doesn’t _have_ to push himself into suffering. He doesn’t try, because he knows it isn’t Atsumu’s choice. He understands routines better than anyone else, and Atsumu attributes the queasiness in his stomach to alcohol.)

They call a cab because Sakusa grumbles, eyes on his phone as he taps through the app, that there’s no way he’s maneuvering Atsumu through downtown Osaka when he’s acting like this.

“Actin’ like what?” Atsumu asks, and feels himself slide off the couch to the floor without looking away from him. Stuck between the couch and low table filled with too many empty glasses, he makes to lie on his back before Sakusa grabs onto the front of his shirt and holds him upright.

“Like _that,_ dumbass. Get off the floor.” Atsumu laughs like something is truly hilarious and pats Kiyoomi’s hand.

They don’t say goodbye to everyone, but they at least have to find Bokuto and let him know they’re heading out. The guy’s back at the bar itself, nursing his nth beer with Akaashi at his side, conversing loudly with one of his cousins. Atsumu reveals their approach with an equally loud call of, “Bokkun~!”

Bokuto turns with a wide grin and attempts to bring the both of them in for a hug, or maybe he’s just trying to guide them to the bar as well, it’s hard to tell. Sakusa breaks the news of their departure.

“Aww, no way, you guys are the first out!” He looks dejected despite barely having spoken to anyone but those at the bar for the last hour. Atsumu doesn’t hold it against the guy, but still finds it a little ridiculous.

Atsumu drapes himself half over Bokuto’s shoulder in an apology and says, “We go out all tha _time,_ Bokkun, have fun with everyone else! Take a shot and dance with Keiji-kun, look at him.”

He laughs a little rudely at the caught off-guard expression in Akaashi’s eyes as the man says, “Oh, I think I’m okay, but thank you for offering for me, Miya-san.”

“Anytime, Keiji-kun.” He waves his fingers a bit at his teammate’s fiancé.

“Come on,” Kiyoomi has a hand on his shirt again, grasping the back of his collar and dragging him off Bokuto as if he weighs nothing. “Stop being an ass.”

“‘m not!”

“The cab will be here soon. I don’t mind leaving you here.”

Atsumu scoffs and says an actual goodbye to Bokuto, gets a raised beer and a farewell in return. He follows Sakusa out to the front.

* * *

He ends up needing at least a bit of help out of the back of the cab and up to their floor of the complex. Sakusa curses something under his breath as he guides him up and walks with Atsumu’s arm across his shoulders, close in to his side. It’s through multiple layers of clothes and excuses, but it’s something.

Stepping into Atsumu’s apartment, finally home but freezing and _shit_ he really should tell Sakusa to turn on the heater, the man in question asks, “You didn’t take your meds earlier, did you?”

Atsumu shakes his head without having the frame of mind to once again ask how he knows this, opens his eyes when he feels Sakusa move away, side colder than the rest of him. He’s on his couch, somehow, doesn’t even remember taking off his shoes. He wiggles his toes and no, they’re definitely off. He’s got patterned socks on and finds it incredibly funny.

From the sounds behind him, Sakusa must be in his kitchen, doing whatever the fuck. Water again, probably, since he left that bottle behind at the bar, and Atsumu’s eyes flutter closed. He could fall asleep right here, sitting up on the couch with the overhead lights blaring.

“You shouldn’t drink like that.”

And maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk, so the immediate defend and distract tactic he uses when things get too personal is a bit slow, and he’s a bit loose-lipped and insanely comfortable, because Atsumu says, entirely truthful, “It makes things better.”

The tinkering in the kitchen stops and in its place comes the soft padding of similarly socked feet across his apartment. He pries one eye open when the couch dips beside him.

Sakusa looks constipated. Atsumu giggles and he really should be embarrassed at its sound.

 _He’s very… touchy today,_ Atsumu thinks when Sakusa reaches for his hands and makes him grab onto the glass of water in one and places a pill in the other, because he can’t remember the word _tactile._

Atsumu eyes the pill. He doesn’t know why he expected a painkiller.

“Where’d ya even know to look for these?” He hesitates only a second before downing the medication he wishes he could skip.

“I told you, I spoke to Osamu.”

Wiping his mouth of excess water, he glowers. “Fucker’s been chattin’ ‘bout me behind my back?”

“Not really.” Kiyoomi pries the glass out of his hand once he just sits there holding it awkwardly out in front of himself, and Atsumu lets him.

“I’m not supposed to take painkillers with my meds,” he says apropos to nearly nothing.

“That’s why I didn’t give you any.”

Atsumu exhales slowly. His head’s still pleasantly fuzzy and he feels normal for the first time in a really long time, or as normal as he thinks he wants to feel. He watches Kiyoomi set the glass down on the coffee table, using one of the coasters he had meticulously stacked and restacked just the other day like his life depended on it (it did, it did, it did, didn’t it?), and it doesn’t even phase him. Coasters are meant to be used anyway. And he watches Kiyoomi walk over to flick the living room light off and then to his too-small heater and turn that on, a dim orange light bathing the room instead, and Atsumu’s pretty sure he didn’t tell him to do that yet, but it works because none of their apartments have central heating and Atsumu gets too cold in his feet and hands—feet covered by stupid patterned socks and hands that reach for Kiyoomi when he joins him back on the couch. Or, they don’t reach for him. Atsumu frowns at himself and his hands that remain in his lap and okay, he’s imagining things now. He shoves those hands under his thighs to warm them up instead.

“Ya think I should get a kotatsu?”

“You don’t have the space to store it.”

“Year-round kotatsu.”

“Sounds hot.”

Atsumu giggles _again,_ fuck it’s definitely those shots, he shouldn’t have done those shots.

“Atsumu.”

He doesn’t fully catch the somber tone, drawls out a long, “Hmm?”

That constipated look is back on his teammate’s face, mouth curved into a gross frown and eyes narrowed and averted like he isn’t sure he wants to be saying—asking, doing, Atsumu has zero idea—whatever it is that’s on his mind.

He tries to help. Hands still under his thighs, Atsumu leans enough to nudge him with his shoulder, only once before he pulls back again. “What’s up, Omi?”

That spurs him on.

“Alcohol makes things better.”

“Uhh… huh?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “That’s what you said.”

He said that, did he say that? He did.

“You did.”

“Oh,” Atsumu breathes, because he’d said _that_ last bit aloud. Catches up to his earlier thoughts, still buzzed, purses his lips because he didn’t mean to make things personal. But, they’re here now. “Yeah, drinking makes things better.”

“It’s only temporary.”

“Ya don’t think I _know_ that, Kiyoomi? Huh? That’s why I don’t fuckin’ drink!”

He’s defensive on principle, but Kiyoomi doesn’t look angry, not like Atsumu expects. Not at all like Osamu would have looked had his brother been in the same position, and not disappointed like his mother used to, finding that half a bottle of shitty cheap wine wrapped in one of Atsumu’s old winter coats and stuffed into the closet in his third year. He can’t read his expression at all, and that drags his mood right down.

He’s supposed to be feeling happy right now, damn it.

“That’s good,” is all Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu deflates with another loud exhale.

“I just—” his voice cracks over the words, he finds interest in the floor, he starts again. “It helps me feel normal, nothin’ goin’ on up here ‘cept fuzz. And ya don’t understand, I just— I just wanna feel normal.”

Sakusa is a quiet person, generally. He doesn’t tend to say things without a purpose, yet also doesn’t tend to betray his thoughts with body language, with actions. He’s a quiet person, so the silence that meets Atsumu’s words shouldn’t startle him so much. It does, though. He waits in the resounding non-reaction for three seconds before flinching in on himself as if Sakusa had snapped at him, hit him, something other than doing absolutely nothing at all. He’s bordering the line of buzzed and sober simply for spilling _that_ wholly mortifying piece of truth about himself and Atsumu turns to take it back, to snap at _Kiyoomi,_ and—

He stops with his mouth open, eyebrows pinched.

Kiyoomi looks— _sad._ Or, he reconsiders, as sad as he’s ever let himself show. That everyday idle expression he wears like a second mask is chipped, a hairline fracture in the form of a glint in dark eyes and the barest of creases between his own brows. It’s small, a hint at whatever he may be feeling at the moment, but Atsumu can see it. The dim light from the heater, the only light in the room, gives him a waypoint in the shadows it leaves across that fractured facade.

“You—”

“I—”

They both stop, and at least Atsumu isn’t too messed up, by the way he doesn’t have to force his amusement from bubbling out again. He continues first, doesn’t give Sakusa the option.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he finishes and finally pries his hands out from under himself, wringing his wrists.

Kiyoomi shakes his head, doesn’t listen when he finishes his own thought, “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Atsumu splutters and doesn’t think before shoving at Sakusa’s shoulder, hard. He moves with it, surprisingly willing, and Atsumu counts it as a win once he falls back beside him with that strange, terrible, depressed and _personal_ look wiped from his eyes. This is easier to deal with, the faint annoyance, faint amusement, faint comfort. It’s normal.

Those words, the insult, honestly, the _you’re so fucking stupid_ shouldn’t be a reassurance. Coming from anyone else besides Kiyoomi in this context, Atsumu wouldn’t have taken it as one. But he feels lighter now, having gotten it out of his system and simultaneously admitted he doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to make it a big deal. It _is_ a big deal, and it’s obvious they both understand that, but the issue doesn’t need to be pressed. At least not in this moment.

They’re not touching at all, but he could so easily blame a mind high on the after effects of their night out and the heady pull of fatigue from deep within him if he wanted to move closer, press their legs together and drop his head to the same shoulder he just shoved at. Atsumu wouldn’t put his hands on him, wouldn’t wrap his arms around his chest like he’d want to, because he wouldn’t want to cage Sakusa in, make him feel too enclosed and encroached upon. A relentless promise; Sakusa works with Atsumu’s obsessive triggers, Atsumu works with Sakusa’s mysophobic ones. He blinks and wonders just when, though, he’d been able to start touching Sakusa without feeling that instant recoil in response—touching like he’s been doing all night, the shove, the arm over his shoulder, patting his hand, legs over his lap for a _long_ time.

“Huh,” he says, unsure of what to do with this information. “Hey Omi?”

“Yes?”

“I think I should go to sleep.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“Yeah.”

Sakusa stands from the couch and looks good when Atsumu has to lean back to keep his face in view. “Are you sleeping there?” he asks.

Atsumu shakes his head and, pressing his luck, holds his hands out—actually does reach out this time, not in his head—and makes childish grabbing motions. “Help me up.”

“You’re an adult, Miya. Stand up yourself.”

He groans but pushes himself up, head reeling. “Whoa, dizzy.”

“God,” Sakusa says and steadies him with a hand at his back, “you’re useless.”

But those words are soft. It drives something into Atsumu’s chest and, as he locks up behind Sakusa’s departure to his own apartment six doors down and leans his forehead against the cool wooden door, he hopes that come tomorrow this will be a memory hidden by the haze of alcohol.

He does not need to be reminded of the fruitless aim of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // originally meant to be a oneshot, but it was getting too long and i wanted to get something out before sakusa's (and my own!) birthday. still working on the second part, so look out for that
> 
> hope you've enjoyed what i have so far!!


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